


Sterek Short Stories

by septima_sum



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Sentinels & Guides, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Arranged Marriage, Crack, Fandom Meta - Freeform, Faux Medieval Setting, Humor, M/M, Parody, Pre-Slash, Sentinel/Guide Bonding, Themes of Human Trafficking, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Undercover Cop Derek Hale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-06 02:07:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8730583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/septima_sum/pseuds/septima_sum
Summary: The guide looks at them silently, his large brown eyes terror-stricken. He's prey among jackals, and he knows it. The thumping of his heart is painfully quick in Derek’s ears, and there is something off about it, too. The kid’s probably been drugged to the gills to render him more pliant and obedient. A cocktail of sedatives and psy-dampeners, most likely, to prevent him from reaching out and forming any kind of telepathic connection.- Chapter Two, in which Derek is an undercover cop who infiltrates Deucalion's crime ring and Stiles is a young guide who ends up in the wrong place at the wrong time.





	1. By Popular Demand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my thanks to [tackygoldring](http://tackygoldring.tumblr.com/) and [docbeeski ](http://docbeeski.tumblr.com/) for beta-reading this fic.

  
  
  


It was in the thirteenth hour of negotiations that things were getting a bit _weird_. Derek wondered whether he would regret the choices in his life that had led up to these very moments. Already he was plagued by a faint headache. Joining the Hale Kingdom with that of their bordering neighbor, the Stilinski Kingdom, proved to be more difficult task than anticipated. Derek and his council had thought it a necessary step, since the Argents grew more powerful with each passing day, but maybe some things were even less desirable than a military defeat and complete annexation.

For example: sitting on a long table with two PR teams who were trying to plot how a Hale-Stilinski marriage would unfold in the public sphere. Derek was occupying one end of the table, King Stilinski the other. With his chestnut brown hair, moles, and athletic built he wasn’t unpleasing to look at, that much Derek had to admit.

“To summarize,” Stilinski said, “we'll join our bordering kingdoms through the marriage. After the ceremony, there will be a period of roughly ten months where our mutual dislike will slowly morph into sexual attraction and love.” He smirked at Derek who fidgeted under the spotlight of his attention. 

“The sexual attraction should be obvious right from the beginning,” one of Derek’s PR advisors, Mr. Lahey, said.

“Indeed,” Ms. Martin agreed. She was the head of Stilinski’s PR team and not to be trifled with. “There has to be a spark there the second your eyes meet, Your Majesties. And then you should consider ramping up the UST over the course of the marriage.”

“ _UST_?”, Derek asked with a frown.

“Unresolved sexual tension,” Stilinski said. His eyes raked over Derek's body, who suddenly felt vaguely tainted. “Don't worry, ladies and gentlemen. I'm already working on it.”

“Ten months!” Derek tried to wrap his head around the idea, which seemed preposterous and insane in equal measures. “That's a long time for a such a state of affairs. Won't the peasants be fed up with it?”

“On the contrary,” Mrs. Reyes said confidently. “They'll eat it right up and ask for more!”

“How can that possibly be the case? This arrangement seems so frustrating for everyone involved,” Derek protested.

“Oh no, mutual pining is high in demand,” Ms. Martin said primly. “Always has been.” 

“But isn’t that totally unrealistic?” Derek asked. “Why have such a drawn-out courtship when all of our issues could be resolved quickly? Can't we just _talk_ and communicate with each other like normal people?”

The silence around the table was absolute. Everyone looked positively _aghast_ at Derek’s suggestion.

“Your Majesty – with all due respect! Definitively not.”

“No one has ever tried that before!”

“I won’t stand for it!”

“It needs to be a veritable _trial_ ,” Mr. Lahey said. “We need some tension to keep the fascination alive and the momentum going. After all, the anticipation of a pleasant event is often much sweeter than its realization.”

“That depends on who writes it down,” one of Stilinski’s advisors said with a little wink. “Some of the writers in our royal court pen the _steamiest_ stories.”

“And some skip right over the E-rated parts,” Stilinski muttered. He seemed to be nursing an old bitterness.

“To allow the peasants at least a modicum of relief, I would suggest a minimum of three nude scenes.” This suggestion came from Mr. Whittemore, a particularly unlikeable PR man from Stilinski’s team. “And if anyone wants to wrestle in front of the other clad only in a thin sheen of oil…”

“A sensible idea!” Mrs. Reyes said, clearly enthused. “How about one bathing scene, one involving a massage, and another one involving an unfortunate wardrobe malfunction at just the right moment?”

“Surely you don't mean _shared_ nude scenes?” Derek objected and sent Stilinski a panicked look for help.

“ _At least_ one of them should be shared,” Mrs. Reyes said vehemently. “Two would be better and three, naturally, would be best.”

“Skinny-dipping is always a crowd-pleaser,” Stilinski said, tapping his chin. “To escape the confines and pressures of royal life, I could occasionally steal away to bathe in a stream. Not knowing of course, that this is also King Hale’s secret getaway.”

The noise of furiously scribbling quills ensued. “That would work beautifully, Your Majesty!”

Derek sighed deeply and pondered the crimes he had evidently committed in his past life.

Everyone soundly ignored him.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


They were entering in the fifteenth hour of contract negotiations when they had finally decided when and how _intercourse_ would take place: after a ten-month period of frustrated longing and mutual pining that ended with Derek and Stilinski fighting about the future of their kingdom and ripping each other’s clothes off in a frenzy of mad passion. It was a touch corny in Derek’s opinion, but he had been assured it would be a highly effective narrative and resonate well with the peasants.

“We should specify the contents of the sex scene,” Mr. Boyd said with only the briefest apologetic glance in Derek’s direction. “I think we can all agree it _has_ to involve penetration.”

“Anal penetration,” Ms. Martin hurried to clarify. 

Mrs. Reyes grinned with undue enthusiasm. “Oh yes, absolutely.”

“Surely there are many different ways pleasure could be achieved,” Derek protested. His face felt as if it was lit on fire. “I don’t see how _any_ of this is any of your business anyway!”

“Anal sex is non-negotiable,” Ms. Martin said with a huff. “Your subjects will feel cheated if you simply use your mouths or hands to bring each other to completion. Insert Slot A into slot B, pardon the frank language.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Derek decided.

“That’s heterosexual socialization for you,” Stilinski said with a shrug. “Can’t do anything about that, so...”

“Speaking of which, are we going to talk about the fact that we’re both male and yet are expected to produce heirs for our kingdom?” Derek asked and pointed at the corresponding paragraph of their makeshift contract. “Please tell me there’s a world-building solution for this imminent issue.”

The advisors looked at each other, clearly puzzled. “Usually we don’t address this point and just hope no one notices.”

Derek was _this_ close to tearing his hair out. “How could anyone possibly _not_ notice that? It’s basic biology!”

“Don’t overthink it,” Stilinski said, aiming to assure him and missing by a wide margin. “It’s fine, we can have kids.”

Derek was baffled. “With each other?”

“Sure. We just don’t talk about who gives birth.”

“Well, _who_ gives birth?” Derek asked. “And how?”

Everyone at the table looked mildly horrified. “We would prefer not to talk about it.”

Derek groaned and buried his face in his hands. If he concentrated, he could feel some of his hairs turning gray.

  
  
  


*

  
  
  


In the end, it took seventeen hours to negotiate a contract that everyone felt confident to sign. More or less. In Derek’s case, mostly less. He signed the parchment with his grumpy trademark scribble, while Stilinski did so with an elaborate flourish and a smirk.

“We’ll see each other at the wedding ceremony,” he said and winked at Derek suggestively. Then he brushed past him with a dramatic sweep of his cloak, closely followed by his entourage.

“See you then,” Derek muttered under his breath and looked after the other king with a glare. The next ten months would be very long indeed.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is welcome. 
> 
> This comes from a place of love, as I hope you can tell. It’s not meant to satirize any particular story – and not even any particular fandom or pairing. I’ve read a ton of royal AUs and even written a few drafts myself. At some point in the future I'll upload a fic with an arranged marriage trope, I'm pretty sure of it. ;-)


	2. In the Dead of Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Derek is an undercover cop who infiltrated Deucalion's crime ring and Stiles is a young guide who ends up in the wrong place at the wrong time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [tackygoldring](http://tackygoldring.tumblr.com/) was so kind to beta-read this story ages ago. Thank you!

  
  
  
Derek has worked tirelessly to integrate himself into Deucalion’s organization. Nineteen grueling months, each day a tightrope walk of acting loyal while never forgetting his true ties. There are bad days where everything blurs and becomes hard to grasp, the idea of his self dissolving at the edges. Deucalion has never been charged with anything, even though his crime organization infests California like a malignant tumor. Derek tells himself that any hardship is worth it; he wants to bring Deucalion to his knees once and for all.

This evening, they are told to meet Deucalion in the ‘showroom’ of his mansion. The interior decoration is impeccable, highly sophisticated – red tapestries and pictures framed in heavy gold, armchairs of sleek black leather – but the impression is somewhat ruined by the large octagonal pit in the center of the room, filled with sand and encircled by thick glass. Derek feels nervous. Once you’re working for Deucalion, it’s impossible to avoid hearing rumors about the showroom, and why it's named that way in the first place. 

There are seven other sentinels present, people like Derek who have recently made a name for themselves. Not the foot soldiers, the lowlife dealers and enforcers, but leaders well-placed within the kraken that is Deucalion’s organization. All of them are highly unpleasant, all of them shrewd and battle-proven: the kind of criminals that have never been pinned by the police.

There is Walsh, who oversees a portion of Deucalion’s drug trade, working in tandem with the Mexican cartels.

Next to him stands Spinelli, who is still something of a mystery to Derek, though he suspects that the spindly man has embedded himself into Deucalion’s money-laundering business.

Derek also spots Eliza, who looks as harmless as they come, but runs some of the high-class sex trafficking rings that Deucalion has established. She is the sort of person who has no problems moving through high society; well put together, business dress, bright blonde locks and a smile to match. Derek has seen her fight, though. He knows her air of respectability is only skin-deep.

“My dear friends! I’m so glad you could all make it,” Deucalion says as he enters the room, spreading his arms in an encompassing gesture. They all tense, however subtly. Eight magnetic needles pointing at their north pole. “You have proven your loyalty. All of you are _invaluable_ members of my team. You help to make this business run smoothly, and for that I am deeply grateful.” He looks at each of them in turn, his eyes glittering with amusement, milky pools that could hide anything. “What sort of employer would I be if I didn’t reward you for your astonishing accomplishments? You’ve earned yourself some fun, don’t you reckon?”

Deucalion looks genuinely thrilled in that understated, reserved way of his, and Derek tries not to broadcast his unease. He needs to be stoic. Strong. Unshakable. Even if he learned long ago that the things that make Deucalion happy make Derek’s stomach turn.

“Speaking of which, I believe it’s time for the entertainment part of the evening,” Deucalion says with a genial, teasing smile. “Bring him in.”

And then Deucalion’s lackey, Ennis, enters the room. There is a leash in his hand, and attached to that leash – collared like a dog – a young man.

Derek draws a sharp breath.

The kid's arms are cuffed behind his back, his eyes widened with fear. Derek takes in his frame, his handsome features, and begins to suspect what Deucalion has in mind for this evening. Fear rolls off the kid in waves, intense and unstoppable, crashing over them, but beyond that, beyond the hackle-rising note of stress…there’s something _different_ about him.

With a shock, Derek feels a faint echo in his mind.

_Resonance._

That guy is a _guide._

No one says a word; the silence is so absolute that Derek can hear the blood rushing through his veins.

“This is _Stiles_ ,” Deucalion says after a sufficiently dramatic pause. “And these are... well, I guess you could say the generals of my army. Why don’t you say _hello_ , Stiles.”

The guide looks at them silently, his large brown eyes terror-stricken. He's prey among jackals, and he knows it. The thumping of his heart is painfully quick in Derek’s ears, and there is something _off_ about it, too. The kid’s probably been drugged to the gills to render him more pliant and obedient. A cocktail of sedatives and psy-dampeners, most likely, to prevent him from reaching out and forming any kind of telepathic connection.

Something about the kid, about his face, about his _name_ , seems strangely familiar to Derek.

 _Stiles…_ With a sinking feeling he realizes that this might be the Stilinski kid who went missing a few weeks ago, back in Beacon Hills. It had been all over the news that the sheriff’s son had been abducted. Derek wonders whether the sheriff’s family was specifically targeted.

“Please excuse him,” Deucalion drawls, his eyes brightened by amusement. “I’m afraid he’s rather shy. The presence of so many sentinels must be overwhelming for a young guide. Especially since he has never bonded with anyone. Isn't that right, Stiles?" Deucalion gives them a conspiring look. "Not a _true_ bond anyway.”

A ghostly shiver runs up Derek’s spine. Sentinels are possessive by nature, and more often than not unapologetically so. In days gone by, treating guides like commodities was the done thing. Nowadays, the notion of a _symbiotic_ relationship with mutual advantages has widely gained acceptance, but Derek knows that Deucalion has still made a fortune treating guides like objects, like trophies or prizes to be handed out, to be forced into telepathic bonds. They are possessions to him: beautiful things that he can loan out and profit from.

And if some of the toys get damaged in the process, well, he can always acquire more.

Deucalion chuckles softly. “I did promise you all a reward. And that’s why you will get to fight over this little guide. Whoever wins will get to claim him and _bond_ with him.”

The other sentinels look ravenous. There’s a change in the atmosphere, something expectant beginning to emerge – a nasty undercurrent of intent aimed towards the guide – and judging by the way the guide looks at the floor now, frozen in abject panic, he is well aware of that.

“I’m afraid I’m the old-fashioned kind of sentinel,” Deucalion muses. “I never saw the merit in allowing guides autonomy. We aren’t equal. We have the strength, the power, the _will._ And they help us realize our true potential and amplify our abilities. Why fix something that isn’t broken? Make no mistake, whoever comes out on top will _own_ this guide and rule over his life or death. You set the laws, he follows them. It’s beautifully simple.”

Taunts and laughter fill the room. “You fuckers don’t stand a chance,” Walsh snarls, while Eliza coos in that abominable faux-baby voice of hers that the guide will make a darling addition to her toy box. A sentinel with heavy facial scars drawls out that he’s going to enjoy breaking their spines and cracks his tattooed knuckles. Under other circumstances, Derek would have sneered at that ridiculous macho display. The circumstances being what they are, there’s nothing further from his mind than finding anything about the situation laughable.

The guide has gotten even paler and the scent of his fear even more potent. That outward display of nervousness will encourage the others, even titillate them. Most of them only feel like sentinels if they are able to instill fear in others. They are primitive. They thrive on pain.

And yet, Derek can’t stem the onslaught of his own instincts, although they are pulling him in the other direction. He suddenly knows that he will do _anything_ to keep that guide safe, up to and including blowing his cover, all those months of work be damned. He doesn't have to think about that decision. It materializes fully formed. His body is already running hot, gearing up for the fight. The guide will be his; there can be no other outcome. He glares heatedly at the others, shifting into an aggressive stance.

Derek undresses partly, like the others, getting rid of pieces of clothing that could hinder his movements during the fight.

And then Deucalion orders them into the pit.

They will all fight simultaneously. No order to it, no rules. Just like in the old days, when the most savage of sentinels ruled supreme and took whatever they deemed theirs.

Derek closes his eyes briefly. All five of his senses are enhanced, and he knows there's only a little push required to open the floodgates. But it's a dangerous game. Like all sentinels, he can drown in the flux of minutiae impressions. Get lost in them to the point of catatonia. It's called _zoning_ and in a situation like this one, it's a death sentence. Derek has to open himself just enough to give himself an advantage, to sharpen his reflexes and zero in on the weaknesses of his opponents. Trying to center himself, he focuses on each one of his senses in turn: on the smell of adrenaline-fuelled sweat; on the discords of thudding heartbeats; on the coarse sand underneath his toes; on the taste of mint lingering on his tongue; on the sight of harsh shadows being painted by the lamps above the pit.

And beyond that, faintly now, almost beyond the threshold of conscious perception, there's the scent of the guide: soap and chemicals, fear and sweat. Somehow it's cleaner and more appealing than anything else in this room.

Derek tries to draw encouragement from that.

“Don’t fight to the death, if you don’t have to,” Deucalion says. “But if you have to, well, by all means… don’t let yourself be deterred. I’ve always been in favor of the survival of the fittest, personally.” He grins at them cheerfully, the very picture of a sadist who orchestrated his own little entertainment show. “Well then, ladies and gentlemen. _Start_.”

Derek will never truly remember what happens next. Even when he sees the video footage weeks later, he will look at himself and look at a stranger. He will not remember what it was like to be him.

There are only thin slivers of memories. The splattering of blood drops. Grunts. Yells. Quickness and warmed muscles and animal rage. Rips cracking under the impacts of his fists. Screams. The disgusting odor of spilling intestines. The spatter of blood all around him. Frenzied activity lost in a red-tinged fog.

On the videotape, Derek’s movements are almost too fast to follow. The closest he comes to being defeated is when he’s locked into combat with Spinelli. For all that he looks like an accountant, Spinelli has lightning-quick reflexes and packs a vicious punch. He even manages to dig his blunt fingers into Derek’s throat, grinning triumphantly, a nightmarish vision of blood-drenched teeth, but before he reaches the jugular, Derek swings around and the older sentinel tumbles into the sand.

In the end, Derek is the last one standing. His torso is glistening with blood and sweat while the other sentinels are groaning bundles of broken limbs on the ground.

Deucalion’s eyebrows have risen when Derek steps out of the pit. He looks mildly aroused. “Once again, you have _exceeded_ my expectations. Well done. Now it's time for you to reap your rewards.” He grins and tugs sharply at the leash so that the guide stumbles forward.

Deucalion presents Derek the handle. The soft supple leather feels like an iron brand in Derek’s palm.

It's only now that Derek realizes how _striking_ the guide truly is. That he notices the amber in his eyes, the slope of his ears... the softness of his lips and the vivid red scar that stretches over his collarbone… nonsensical details. And beyond that, his scent just _sings_ to Derek. The feeling of possessiveness is instantaneous and scorching in its intensity, the adrenaline skyrocketing and bubbling in his blood – pushing the pain into the background – and Derek is so high on the triumph of having defeated the other sentinels, of having forced them into submission, that he all he can think of in that moment is the indistinguishable mantra of _bond-bond-bond_. The imperative is the bane of his existence. Always has been.

“My, my, aren’t you _eager_ ,” Deucalion says with a chuckle. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t keep you any longer! Unless you want to claim him right here and now? No? Pity! Have fun with your guide, but remember: it’s a breakable toy and there’s no extended warranty.”

His laughter washes over Derek like ice water.

It’s a wake-up call, and one that he clearly needs. Fuck, for a moment he embodied the brute sentinel caveman that he never wanted to be. He feels sick to his stomach. Derek is holding somebody's _leash_. It isn’t the worst thing he’s ever done in Deucalion’s organization, far from it, but that thought doesn’t make him feel less like a piece of shit.

The scent of the guide’s fear is now stronger than ever. If Derek concentrates, he can make out a faint chemical smell as well; the drugs that the kid’s most likely been forced to take. When Derek starts walking, the kid starts walking, too – but the first steps are coltishly uncertain, almost staggering. The guide isn’t actually much smaller than Derek, but he is thin and gangly in comparison. He keeps his gaze on his shuffling feet. Derek wants to reach out and offer a comforting word, but as long as he is in Deucalion’s den that would be ill-advised behavior. He has a role to play – the bloodied warrior with his trophy – and he can’t afford to show any signs of weakness. And so they walk silently through the corridors of Deucalion's mansion, past sentinel guards and rows of large, tasteful paintings.

The elevator takes them to the basement level, where Derek has parked his car. Once they've reached the Camaro, Derek opens the passenger door and motions Stiles to sit down. He reaches over the kid to fasten his seatbelt, grimacing as the guide flinches and presses himself deeper into the seat in a vain attempt to putting some distance between them.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Derek assures him, but he’s aware that the words must ring hollow, particularly when the guide is still incapacitated and doesn’t have a single reason to trust him. At least Derek can undo the collar and remove it (which earns him another flinch). For a brief moment, Derek marvels at the softness and warmth of the guide’s skin, but that sentiment is closely followed by a spike of shame. He's still high on adrenaline. He shouldn’t make the situation creepier than it already is.

Derek takes a step back, assessing the situation. It’s looking bad. His face and arms are still splattered with blood; he probably looks like a savage and reeks even worse. He could double as an extra from a slasher movie. The fact that there’s currently a young guide on his passenger seat, handcuffed and scared out of his wits, isn't working in his favor either. Derek can’t afford to get pulled over. He opens the trunk of the Camaro to retrieve a new shirt, stored there for occasions like this one, and gets rid of the bloodied tatters of the Henley shirt he currently wears. After a cursory rub-down with a few wet wipes, he slips into the new shirt and studies his reflection in a window of his car. Well. Slightly less murderous looking. It has to be enough, for now. He disables his cell phone and climbs into the driver’s seat.

The Camaro, sleek like a feline predator, roars to life under his feet. He leaves the parking deck and stops at the security barrier on the ground level. The sentinel that has been positioned there waves them through. He nods at Derek in a sign of respect and lets his gaze drag over Stiles' body, not even bothering to hide his lecherous grin or the malicious glimmer in his eyes.

Derek clenches his jaw but he doesn't say anything. Stiles doesn't react at all. His eyes are empty and flat, looking right through the guard. He seems to be stuck in his thoughts, fixating on something beyond the present. Derek carefully navigates the Camaro down the driveway. The acres of Deucalion's estate are covered in lush vegetation. A couple of peacocks strut around at leisure, their long tail feathers dragging across the grass like the trains of opulent ball gowns. Through the gap of the opened driver's window Derek can smell citrus blossoms and ornamental pears, olive trees and lilies, and above all, the scent of jasmine, the spray of white flowers exuding an equally sweet and musky perfume now that the sun has set. It's even stronger than the residual smell of exhaust that's a constant backdrop in this city, even up here in the hills.

The large gates at the entry swing open as he approaches. Derek drives past the sentinel guards that have been placed there, not flinching under the scrutiny of their watchful eyes. He's relieved to leave Deucalion's estate behind and follow the winding streets down to the city; he always is. Being in Deucalion's presence feels like slow suffocation. He can breathe easier the more distance is between them. He navigates the Camaro through the streets of LA with that sense of elation, with the knowledge of having escaped, of having fooled Deucalion once more. The sky is the color of a forming bruise, the brownish red of iron bleeding into purple, and purple fading into blue.

After a few excruciatingly tense minutes, Derek risks a long glance in Stiles' direction. The guide has turned his face towards the window so that Derek can’t see much more than the curve of his cheekbone. He is crying silently. Tears are running down the guide’s cheek, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t sob. He is still like a stature. The scent of his distress is overpowering, and Derek can’t tolerate it. Not when he can actually taste salt in the air.

“I’m Derek,” he says, breaking the silence.

The guide doesn’t look in his direction, though Derek harbors no doubt that he’s been heard. The kid’s form goes even stiller. He seems to have stopped breathing altogether.

Unbidden, Laura’s admonishments rise into Derek’s mind, all the times she called him a hopeless idiot.

“You’re Stiles Stilinski, right?”

The kid's head jerks around. When it’s clear that Derek actually expects an answer, he says, “Yeah… I am.” His voice is scratchy and rough, like it hasn’t been properly used in some time.

“I’m sorry for what you’ve been through,” Derek says softly, gripping the steering wheel tighter. “I know your dad.”

At the mention of the sheriff, Stiles looks down. He makes a distressed sound, something bitten off and quickly subdued.

“It’s _persona_ l for you,” Stiles says, slurring the words together. “Isn’t it.”

“What?”

The guide snorts and then there’s a pained expression on his face, one that he can’t quite smooth out even though he tries. “Must be nice. You dreamed of this.”

_“What?”_

“I don’t know what my dad did to you, but I bet… bet it’s nice to have this – this opportunity. Take your anger out on me. Fuck your enemy’s guide. Bond them through force. That’s tradition, right? History. That’s what you do.”

“I don’t – Stiles, that's not what's going to happen- ”

“Oh sorry, isn’t this your revenge fantasy?” Stiles asks. He has difficulty shaping the vowels properly, but still every word is laced with venom. “Is this your - fuck, what? Your _romantic_ fantasy?”

“No! It's not! This isn’t what it looks like,” Derek says and then curses his stupidity. In the entire history of humanity, that sentence has never inspired trust in anyone.

“You can abuse me – hell, rape me - but I won’t say _I love you_. Won’t make you breakfast the morning after. I’m not your kept guide, okay? Not your besotted little husband. Get that? I’m not going to make it easy.”

“ _Jesus Christ_ , no,” Derek says, exasperated. “I’m going to take you to your dad.”

A startled pause.

“What?” Stiles croaks.

“ _Listen carefully._ I’m not one of Deucalion’s employees, I’m an undercover cop. Infiltrating his organization is a part of my objective. At the next stop, we’ll get rid of your handcuffs. And if we keep driving, we might be able to reach Beacon Hills by sunrise. I can’t call ahead – my phone might be bugged, so I have to keep it disabled it for the time being. But I’ll bring you home, Stiles. I promise you that.”

A stunned silence follows that statement.

Derek can see Stiles mulling this over, absorbing the words through the molasses of his drugged mind. His scent doesn’t give way to happiness, doesn’t show any signs of the citrus-like notes of endorphins.

“Okay dude,” Stiles says after a few moments. “Whatever.” He seems tired. Exhausted. It’s as if he’s deflating gradually, all the fight going out of him, leaving only bone-deep weariness in its wake.

Derek grits his teeth.

Laura is so right about him.

He’s always been hopeless.  
  
  


*

 

Derek keeps his word. He soon pulls over and gets rid of Stiles’ handcuffs. The metal tears like a paper toy under the pull of his fingers. Once freed, Stiles groans in a mix of agony and relief; he stretches his arms and curses softly.

“Better?” Derek asks.

Stiles nods. He fidgets for a while before he finds a position he’s halfway comfortable in. After the fight, Derek was so high on his hormones that the honed in on Stiles’ guide scent and not much else. When he expands his senses now, ever so carefully, a more detailed picture emerges. There’s the scent of stress, which still fully engulfs the guide, wrapping around him like an oversized blanket. There’s the chemical scent Derek noticed before, the one that’s most likely indicative of one or several synthetic drugs. Psyvidolam would be a safe bet. It's the most effective telepathic dampener and usually renders even the strongest of guides psy-zero. He also detects some traces of soap or shower lotion, and beyond that the olfactory footprint of Deucalion’s compound; concrete and steel, fabric, chlorinated water. And sentinels. Stiles must have spent at least a week there, or more likely two or three. He’s exhausted. His body desperately craves sleep. Most alarmingly, Derek detects some traces of physical mistreatment. Bruises have a distinctive, sour smell to them; residues of iron, of white blood cells, of torn tissue, torn vessels. Derek suddenly remembers the vivid scar on Stiles’s collarbone.

“Are you hurt?” he asks abruptly.

Stiles startles upright. “Um? No. Not particularly.”

“But you _smell_ like you’re hurt.”

Stiles’ eyebrow rise. “ _Sentinels_ ,” he mutters, making the word sound like a curse. “I have a few bruises. Some old, some fresh.”

“Do you require medical assistance?”

“Definitively not.”

 _Keep your hands off me_ , is what Stiles means.

Derek nods. “Okay.” He can respect that.

They are driving through San Joaquin Valley now, having just left the Tejon Pass behind. Derek keeps his eyes on the road, on the long straight line that stretches until it reaches the horizon. With his sentinel gift, he can see that the land isn't as empty as it appears to be. He can detect movement here and there; the scuttling of jackrabbits, the sinuous glide of rattlesnakes winding through grass, and even a trotting coyote in the far distance. Derek could zoom in on any given detail in his visual field, but he doesn't dare to. An untethered sentinel is half useless and always at risk. He wonders what Stiles is thinking of right now. The silence between them has an oppressive, uncomfortable quality that grates on Derek’s nerves. If Stiles has been forced to take psyvydolam, and Derek bets he has, his telepathy will be muted and his empathy stifled. It can't be pleasant for him. With a mental shudder, Derek remembers what it was like to take drugs that messed with his sentinel abilities. Like someone put a knot in his fucking shoelaces and then forced him to shuffle through a marathon.

“You can choose a radio station,” Derek offers.

He can feel Stiles’ ill-will – the guide suspects foul play, like this act is meant to bribe him or lull him into a false sense of security – but he nevertheless angles for the radio and turns it on. They both wince as Katy Perry blasts through the car.

Stiles quickly changes the station, searching for something that isn’t a bubbly, sugar-dripping pop tune. Derek notices that the guide’s palms are broad and his fingers long and elegant; they look like they’re dexterous. They could belong to a musician.

Stiles finally settles on a song with aggressive riffs and a furious drum line, a song with explosive, frantic verses. He increases the volume past Derek’s pain threshold ( _way_ past), and nods along to the rhythm ever so slightly. His right index begins to tap in turn with the beat.

“System of a Down?” Derek asks.

“Yup.”

The kid’s got taste, Derek thinks with a sigh. He turns the volume down until he can bear it somewhat. Pain aside, that screeching front singer might catapult him into a zone if he's not careful. It still ends up being a free exercise in sensory self-control though.

But on the upside, Stiles seems slightly more relaxed than he was a few moments ago.  
  
  


*

 

They haven’t gotten far when Derek notices that the gas tank needs to be refueled soon. As in _very soon._ That’s just his shit luck.

Derek contemplates his options. Appearing in public with Stiles is just asking for trouble. On the other hand, Derek’s loath to incapacitate Stiles again, and even that would be no guarantee that the guide wouldn’t be able to draw attention to himself. Derek would have to incapacitate and gag Stiles – to _immobilize_ him so completely so that he’d be incapable of banging his head against the car windows or doing anything similar to produce noise. Derek lacks the necessary equipment to achieve that particular feat, and even if he had enough rope to spare, he couldn't put Stiles through that ordeal.

It seems his only choice is letting Stiles accompany him and hope for the best.

Like that has ever happened.

When the Camaro exits the interstate, Stiles immediately becomes alarmed. “Where are we going?"

“I need to refuel the car,” Derek grunts. "We'll be back on the road in no time."

The gas station is in the middle of nowhere. It’s clear that it has seen better days; there’s something depressing about the glaring fluorescent lights that suffuse its interior and the broken neon letters on its roof. There are four other cars in the parking lot. Not ideal, but Derek can work with it. He tells Stiles to stay put and refuels the tank quickly. Once that is done, he parks the Camaro in some distance from the other cars.

“Do you need to use the restroom?” he asks Stiles.

The guide bites his lip. “Dude, you have no idea.”

“Okay… listen,” Derek says after a few moments in which he searches for the right words. “I know you don’t trust me, and if you’re as clever as I think you are, you’re going to make a run for it or try to alert someone. That can’t happen, Stiles. I’m _really_ an undercover cop. For your own good and mine, we can’t draw attention to ourselves. I need to keep my cover. And you need the protection of that cover, too. I’m going to accompany you to the restroom, okay? Don’t do anything stupid. _Please_ trust me on this.”

Stiles nods, but his face is so blank that Derek can’t tell if the guide is really agreeing or just pretends to.

“Okay,” Derek sighs. “Let’s go.”

Derek stays close to Stiles, close enough to grab his arm at any given point. At first glance Stiles doesn’t look too bad. He wears black sweatpants and a thin grey shirt; inconspicuous attire. At second or third glance, well… there’s no knowing what someone would be able to notice. Stiles’ hair is half an inch longer than the buzz cut he sported in the newspaper articles, and that actually alters his appearance significantly. Derek doesn’t think he’ll be recognized if he manages not to draw attention to himself. Beacon Hills isn’t exactly in the neighborhood. Derek knows the statistics by heart, knows how shockingly often people disappear – how often _guide_ s in particular disappear – all over California, all over the United States. It’s not like Stiles’ case is unheard of.

But still.

There’s always a risk of being recognized.

A handful of people are inside: a couple looking at the fridge with beverages, and another customer at the counter, currently paying. 

Derek tries to gauge whether there’s any undue attention sent their way. The paying customer doesn’t look his way, but the woman at the fridge glances up and goes slightly slack-jawed. She’s not looking at Stiles, though. Her gaze is glued to Derek’s from, taking in his appearance from head to toe. 

Derek scowls at her.

Then he realizes what he’s doing and stops immediately. Or tries to. His family has joked for years that he was born with a scowl on his face.

When they return from the restroom, Stiles levels big eyes at him and tells him that he’s starving and dying of thirst, and can he please have something to eat and to drink?

Derek hesitates. He should probably say no, but he doesn’t even know what happened to Stiles in Deucalion’s compound – he sure doesn’t look like he enjoyed regular meals in the last weeks – and something in the guide’s eyes makes Derek’s resistance melt like a popsicle in the middle of summer, overriding his first cautionary impulse with ease. “Okay,” Derek growls, “but I’m buying everything and you’re keeping _quiet_.”

“Sure thing,” Stiles says. He starts to check the food assortment at a leisured pace, picking a few items here and there, while Derek is starting to sweat. The longer they stay, the bigger the chances that they leave a lasting impression on someone. It’s bad enough that he’ll have to interact with the cashier. Derek is aware that he has a resting bitch face, as Cora likes to point out on a regular basis. His physical appearance makes him seem much more like a delinquent than a law-abiding citizen (or god beware, a cop). It’s actually one of the reasons he was deemed fit for the undercover program (not that his superiors used the term _resting bitch face_ , but they did come embarrassingly close to it).

Once Stiles has finished foraging, he hands the items over to Derek and then stays two steps behind him, timidly hiding in his shadow.

The girl behind the counter has locks in all colors of the rainbow and an arm sleeve tattoo that tells a vivid saga of several _Hello Kitty_ figures. Her name tag reads _Imani_. She looks up from her phone as they’re nearing the counter. “Found something, guys?”

Like a magician, Stiles produces a bright, winning smile out of nowhere and steps forward. “Yeah, plenty!” he says and gestures to the food in Derek’s hands. “I'm positively starving. Have you ever tried these mini pretzels? They're the best, let me tell you-”

The effect of his friendly chatter is instantaneous: Imani brightens under his attention. She scans the few items – water and chocolate bars and the veritably monstrous bag of mini pretzels - and asks Stiles conversationally if they still have a long way to go.

“A few hours, yeah. It’s a few hours, _Derek_ , right?” Stiles turns to him.

“I think so, yeah,” Derek replies. His grits his teeth when realizes what Stiles is doing. “I think we need to get going,” he tells the guide, a note of urgency in his voice. “You remember our appointment tomorrow?” He hands a few bills over the counter.

Stiles waves his objection aside. “We have a minute, don’t we? It’s not like we’re on the run.” He laughs unconvincingly before turning to Imani again. “We’re heading up north. Do you know Beacon Hills?”

Imani shakes her head.

“Stiles…” Derek interjects.

“Hey, can’t blame you! It’s a sleepy town. Beautiful though. My dad’s the sheriff there.”

“Oh, you’re a sheriff’s kid?”

“Yeah.” Stiles smiles and then covers one of her hands with his, a surprisingly bold move Derek didn’t see coming. “I hope you don’t mind me saying that, but you have _incredibly_ beautiful eyes. Like, the prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen. Would you mind if I asked you out? I’d love to take you out on a date.”

Imani looks at Stiles with widened eyes, clearly thrown off-balance. Then she smiles tentatively. It seems she wants to agree, but before she has a chance to, Derek lays a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and says apologetically, “I’m sorry, but my cousin recently had a mental episode. We just left the hospital, in fact, and I’m afraid he’s not in the right state of mind to make any short-term or long-term commitments. I really need to bring him home, would you mind?” Derek gives her his best approximation of an everything-is-fucking-fine smile.

The girl looks startled, but Derek’s attempt to pry Stiles loose still works. He grabs the food and steers Stiles outside, a firm hand never leaving the guide’s shoulder.

Stiles looks back one more time, seeking Imani’s eyes. His demeanor changes abruptly once the doors glide shut behind him. His pulse suddenly hammers in Derek’s ears, and the smell of fear is rapidly getting so intense that Derek thinks even a psy-null human should be able to pick up on it.

It’s clear that the guide expects to be punished for this little stunt.

“Relax, I’m not going to hurt you,” Derek murmurs, but he winces when the statement comes out clipped and flat instead of the reassuring tone he aimed for. It’s _true_ that he’s livid, but he the anger isn’t directed at Stiles. By drawing attention to himself, the guide did the sensible thing, since he has no way of knowing if Derek has told the truth. Not when his telepathy is muted. Derek should have handled the situation better. With his particular brand of luck, Imani is probably typing the key words into a search bar right now. _Beacon Hills_ and _sheriff_ will lead her quickly to articles about Stiles’ disappearance.

And that will no doubt make her contact the police.

They're about halfway to the car when Stiles makes a run for it, breaking away from him and running towards the empty stretch of land behind the parking lot. It’s a dumb move and probably brought on by blind panic.

“Fuck,” Derek curses and starts the pursuit.

He catches up with Stiles quickly. It’s not even a competition. The only thing that Stiles had going for him is the element of surprise, and that only gave him a few seconds. Just enough to cross the rest of the parking lot. When Derek barrels into Stiles, they fall to the ground, into the soft dirt. It’s their bad luck that the terrain is steeper than they thought and they roll about a dozen yards before they come to a halt, stopped by a large thorny shrub.

Derek shields Stiles from the worst of the thorns. He curses and groans as he disentangles his arm from the shrub. The little puncture wounds mend immediately.

Stiles makes a move of trying to get to his feet, but he’s hindered by Derek. They wrestle shortly before Derek can pin Stiles to the ground and then sit on top of his back, using his weight to his advantage. Sentinels are heavier than other humans, even at the same height and body type, and Stiles can buck up against Derek all that he wants, his wild thrashing has no effect. Lying down, Derek effectively traps the guide underneath him and hindering large movements.

Stiles heartbeat is quick like a rabbit’s, hammering in his chest as if his heart tries to break free.

“Let me go!” he yells, but with Derek pressing down on him he lacks the volume to make it a full cry.

“ _Please be quiet_ ,” Derek hisses desperately.

“HELP!” Stiles screams.

Derek curses and clamps a hand over Stiles mouth, effectively stifling his protests. “Be quiet!” he whispers furiously.

Stiles answers that order by biting down on Derek’s hand. There’s so much force behind that bite that Derek is sure his skin tearing. He curses under his breath, groaning in pain. He always forgets that non-sentinels can actually be dangerous, however physically disadvantaged they might be.

In the parking lot, someone says, “hey… did’ya hear something?”

There are two people there, two heartbeats. Probably the couple. Derek strains his hearing, fear burning through him like acid. _They can’t be discovered._ He presses his hand even harder against Stiles’s mouth, gritting his teeth when Stiles doesn’t stop biting him in the least.

The two people in the parking lot murmur. Then one of them calls uncertainly, “Hello? Is someone there?”

Stiles wants to answer, but all he manages to produce is a weak gurgling sound. Derek’s weight is pressing the air from his lungs. By now, Derek is feeling frantic and distressed, too – his hand motherfucking _hurts_ , they’re going to be discovered, and he’s scared that he’s hurting Stiles beyond superficial bruises. Everything went fucking south.

Long moments pass.

Derek couldn’t have said how long they remained in the painful gridlock, but he’s thankful that it’s a new moon. To regular human eyes, the night must be nearly pitch black.

Relief floods him when he finally hears car doors slam, and then a moment later the stuttering noise of a starting engine ripples through the night air. There’s a light beam above their heads, swinging around, and then the car sounds become fainter.

Stiles has stopped biting down on Derek’s fingers – about time – and Derek is relieved as his flesh mends itself in seconds, leaving only the memory of pain behind. It takes him longer to notice that Stiles has gone fully pliant under him, making no further attempts to buck him off. And it takes him another moment to realize that Stiles’ relative stillness is accompanied by a strangely irregular breathing pattern.

Derek finally rolls off Stiles, kneeling beside him. The guide he doesn’t look at Derek at all – he sucks in air as if he’s a goldfish thrown out of his tank; his eyes are wide open but unseeing, and his heartbeat is thunderously loud. Stiles’ hands bury themselves in the soft loose ground, making reflexive grasping motions.

_“Stiles?”_

With effort, Stiles drags himself into a half-kneeling, half-lying position. His breathing is hacked-off and awfully loud, his torso shuddering with the effort of sucking in air.

“Fuck,” Derek curses. “Stiles, everything is alright, okay? I’m not going to hurt you anymore.” He grips Stiles’ shoulder harder than intended and desperately tries to remember what to do in a situation like this one. Usually guides are there to, well, _guide_ the sentinels. Not the other way around.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Derek repeats again and again. “It’s fine, it’s fine.” He wishes Stiles still had access to his telepathic abilities. “Stiles? Stiles! You’re safe with me.”

He might as well talk to the moon for all the good that it does. It doesn’t even look as if the words registered with Stiles.

When no better idea comes up, he grabs Stiles’ hands and presses them against his temples.

It’s a strange feeling. There's suddenly _something_ at the borders of his mind. _Someone._ Feelings that aren't his own, murmured words in a foreign language. Fragments of thoughts. The sensation is disorienting and leaves him reeling. 

The contact seems to shock Stiles in all the best ways, however. He's stopped shaking. 

“Look into my mind,” Derek implores him. 

Stiles wrinkles his forehead as he presses his fingertips into Derek’s temples. Guides don’t need physical contact to establish a mental connection. The strongest guides can communicate with sentinels or other guides even across hundreds of miles. It’s always easiest with contact though, and the temples are the mind’s gate. The presence in Derek’s thoughts quickly grows in strength, grows in clarity. 

Derek gasps as he’s bombarded with sensations. Memories. Feelings. It’s so _much_ , and so _fast_ -

_A hand on his shoulders._

_I’m sorry._

_Sheets of paper._

_The bright glare of fire._

_Pebbles hitting the water._

_Bright green foliage._

_Your results are back-_

_A mouth on his throat._

_I’m sorry._

_So sorry._

Derek tries to sort through the sensations, but it’s next to impossible. He just goes with the flow and lets it happen. To Derek’s sensitive sentinel ears, both his and Stiles’ heartbeats are as loud as drums in the stillness of the night. He focuses on their rhythms, off-kilter as they are – particularly on Stiles’ faster one.

It takes a while, but Stiles’ breathing gradually evens out.

There’s something mesmerizing about the sound of their heartbeats and the sound of them breathing. They’re nearly in sync now. Derek finds he no longer minds having his temples touched, no longer minds the pressure of Stiles’ fingers digging into the vulnerable skin. Opening his eyes, he marvels at the endless stretch of land and sky, at the wilderness of the landscape and the distinct scent of sun-burnt earth that is still lingering even though it’s long past sunset. The stars are bright above them, dotting the night sky with a million needlepoint lights. The episode in the showroom feels like it has happened in a different lifetime, to another person. Derek finds it hard to understand how they have both ended up here, kneeling opposite each other as if they’re observing some strange religious ritual – in the middle of nowhere, in the dead of night.

But most amazingly of all, he feels _connected_ to Stiles. Like he understands Stiles in ways he can’t even articulate. As if Stiles has _always_ been there, as if Derek has _always_ known him. Stiles is still a stranger, but somehow… also isn’t. 

He feels the _core_ of Stiles’ being, the essence of his self. 

And it’s incredible.

“Wow,” Stiles says as he finally withdraws his hands. His dark eyes are open and clear, seeking Derek’s. “That was something. I’m starting to consider the possibility that you’re actually a good guy.”

Derek gives him a pleased, shy smile.

“If you did that more often, you’d leave a whole different impression.” Stiles grins at him; still feebly, but also with genuine humor. “I’ve never seen anyone with such a strong serial killer vibe. But you also have a Prince Charming smile, so that’s confusing.”

“I’m a big softy,” Derek says with a sigh. He can tell that this statement is going to haunt him, one way or another. “I assure you, my insides are very… marshmallow-like.”

“Oh man,” Stiles mutters, more to himself than to Derek. “This night has officially gotten too weird. I’m out.”

“We can agree on that point.” Derek stands up and offers Stiles a hand, drawing the guide upright. “Come. I’ll bring you home.”

Stiles offers no objection, and so they head back to the car. Derek is relieved to leave the gas station behind and hit the interstate again. It’s nearly empty at this point of the night. He’s careful to stay on the safe side of the speed limit, but even so he expects the flashing red and blue lights of a police car to materialize in the rear-view mirror at any moment. He’s _sure_ that Imani must have informed someone – if Derek has learned anything at all in his twenty-six years on the planet, it’s that he’s never that lucky.

But nothing happens. Nothing at all.

The rest of the ride is uneventful.

Derek still doesn’t know what he’s doing, except obviously risking the last nineteen months of hard work and ensuring that his superior will rip him a new one. It’s not even just the undercover project and his career that he endangering; his life is on the line. If Deucalion ever finds out what Derek did... well. It won't be pretty. And the guide might even be a trap of sorts---a loyalty test that Derek will soon fail.

The funny thing: Derek doesn’t regret it, even now, even with a little bit of distance. He thought he was prepared to make the hard choices that every undercover cop has to make, but Derek wasn’t capable of standing on the sidelines while the others fought like wild dogs over Stiles. He just wasn't. And he won't regret it.

Stiles dozes in uneasy intervals through the night, his form huddled on the passenger seat, arms slung across his knees. He's hungry when he finally wakes up. Unfortunately Derek dropped the food when he started to run after Stiles, but there’s still a box of crackers and a can of soda in the glove compartment. Out of the corner of his eyes, he watches Stiles eat and drink with mechanical efficiency, apparently hardly tasting what he consumes but not willing to pass up nourishment.  
  
  


*

 

Derek drives and drives and drives, and the Camaro eats up the miles and carries them closer and closer to the sunrise and to Beacon Hills. They arrive in their home town at dawn, while the light is grayish and diffuse, caught between night and day. Stiles stares outside with wide eyes; his whole body is tense. He is quick to oblige as Derek asks him for directions. _Left. Turn right. Down that road. Around the corner, then left again._

The sheriff’s house looks ordinary and nice enough, though Derek notices that the garden is in a poor state. The grass is brownish and haphazardly dotted with a garden tools, as if someone threw them out in a fit of rage.

Derek accompanies Stiles to the door.

The guide presses the bell with a trembling finger.

Nothing happens for long moments. Then Derek hears a faint rustling sound, someone stumbling against a piece of furniture, a curse – clattering steps on the stairs – and finally the door is yanked open.

The sheriff stares at them. He looks a decade or two older than the last time Derek saw him; his eyes are scarily bloodshot and the stench of alcohol suffuses his personal space like a poisonous cloud. His face looks crumbled and weathered.

There is a high, shrill cry of, “Dad!” and then the echoing, disbelieving cry of _“Stiles?!”_ Before Derek can blink, the young guide is engulfed in what looks to be a bone-crushing hug, both men clinging to one another like the survivors of a shipwreck. The look that the sheriff gives Derek over his son’s shoulder is so incredulous, so _grateful_ that Derek ends up looking away, hiding his own feelings behind a grim scowl.

Now that he brought Stiles back home, now that his mission is accomplished, it really hits him. He just risked his entire undercover mission. Nineteen grueling months of work, and all the prep that went into it before that. He's in deep, deep shit. He needs a strategy to handle the turn of events. And he'll have to come clean to his superior. While Derek has already accumulated a lot of incriminating evidence, it is most likely not enough to deliver an impactful blow. Deucalion's crime organization is a beast with thousand heads and cutting one off won't be enough.

Derek will have to find a way. And looking at Stiles and his father, he knows that no matter what happens, it will always have been worth it.

Especially when Stiles turns around and mouths a silent _‘thank you.’_  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is welcome.


End file.
